


More Than Earthly Meat and Drink

by NoirRosaleen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Dragons, F/M, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Waiter There's Faust In My Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirRosaleen/pseuds/NoirRosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been bored before he met Sherlock. Living with a dragon, however, was a little more than he reckoned for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Earthly Meat and Drink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [augustbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustbird/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fireflight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/358134) by [augustbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustbird/pseuds/augustbird). 



> I'm not the best remixer in the world, especially when my remixee is a fabulous writer; I tend to get overly anxious about doing the work justice while still putting my own spin on it. I managed to muddle along here, though, and along the way it got slightly Faust-flavoured. If you haven't read Fireflight yet, you may want to do that first, as my side of the story is a bit sketchy (AND IT'S SO INCREDIBLY GOOD HOW HAVE YOU NOT READ IT ALREADY YOU POOR DEPRIVED PERSON- ahem).
> 
> Beta'ed by donutsweeper and ladyofthelog - thank you, ladies!

John Watson, ex-soldier and medical doctor, was bored beyond bearing. Ever since he was shot and had been invalided back to London, since he moved into his tiny, beige bedsit, since he realised that the tremor in his dominant hand meant his surgical skills were useless. None of his dreams of a normal life in Afghanistan had prepared him for this, rudderless and lost in a city he'd once loved.

Therapy wasn't helping. The walks he grimly embarked on to try and make his leg work by brute force did nothing except to leave him aching and frustrated. After some of the worse nightmares, anything at all seemed preferable to his shell of a life.

Then he met Sherlock.

\- - - -

_Marriage announcement ensures continuation of legacy,_ proclaimed the paper. The picture below it showed Sherlock's brother smiling benignly next to the woman who'd called herself Anthea the first time John had endured one of Mycroft's kidnappings. The article continued with a self-congratulatory piece about how Mycroft had deigned to select a mate in order to continue the bloodline of Britain's dragons, and how much their great country owed him, and all the rest of the usual twaddle.

Actually, it wasn't much of a shock; not the dragon bit, anyway. The idea of Mycroft breeding, on the other hand...John squeezed his eyelids shut on that image and winced.

\- - - - 

Sherlock kept glancing at him sidelong when he thought John wasn't looking, as if John was going to pack up and leave. But he still invited John to crime scenes, and he still needed reminding of things like food and sleep and _keep the bloody experiments out of the edible food section of the fridge, you bastard_ , although John worried less about Sherlock accidentally poisoning himself.

John was once again attempting to impose his will on the calamity of their flat when he found them – glittering blackish things that turned deep purple in the light. Scales. The sound of the violin slowed and stopped, plaintive notes dying away. Looking up, he found unearthly eyes on him.

“Can I keep these?”

“Do whatever you want,” Sherlock said, and started playing again. John tucked them safely into his pocket and went to go plug in the hoover.

\- - - -

Liz did not like Sherlock. “He wants you to himself,” she insisted as they ate their Thai, lights a bit too bright to be romantic and the pad kee mao a bit too mild for John's taste.

“No, he doesn't,” John said placatingly, as his mobile buzzed with the fifth text from the subject of her distaste. _Need to know rate of blood loss from blood thinners as opposed to hemophiliacs immediately._

“He's a dragon, he can't share. That's practically the eighth time he's texted you since we sat down!” The phone buzzed again. “Ninth, now.”

“Sixth,” John corrected, and tucked the mobile into his pocket for the rest of dinner. (She broke up with him anyway, after he'd paid the bill and walked her to a taxi.)

\- - - -

“Will you show me?”

It had slipped out before John could stop himself. Sherlock stared back at him as if he'd spoken in Dari.

“You don't have to,” he added, tripping over his alcohol-slowed tongue. Pressuring a dragon was probably not an intelligent plan. “I'm sorry, please forget I asked.”

A soft noise made him look back in time to see scales spring up from nowhere across Sherlock's skin, sparkling down his arms, highlighting the cheekbones that had already looked dangerous and now looked like an invitation for self-harm, for adrenaline junkies who liked to risk life and limb and lips. Danger in its most seductive form. He couldn't look away. “Hell, you're beautiful,” he husked, reaching forward to test the texture of Sherlock's neck.

The surprise that flickered in Sherlock's eyes would have been missed by someone less familiar with him, but John had spent months in the study of Sherlock. Had no one ever told him? Or had he never heard it from someone who meant it?

It didn't matter. The scales on his cheekbones were smooth under John's fingertips, not razor-sharp like he'd half-imagined, but his hair slid through John's fingers as silkily as any human's. The eyes dilated from the slits like a cat's in darkness, and “Extraordinary,” escaped John's lips, falling away like his discarded inhibitions. If some infinite power had created a John Watson trap, it couldn't have been better designed than the dragon breathing rapidly beneath his hands, inhuman hunger in the depths of those eyes.

Both scales and skin tasted the same under John's lips, the angle of Sherlock's cheekbone curving away from his mouth, the pattern of the scales begging to be traced farther and farther until he realised he was a breath from Sherlock's ear, and they hadn't even talked about this, and he was kissing one of the treasures of Britain, and-- 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, pulling away.

The dragon looking back at him did not look amused. John didn't have time to panic before the scales vanished and he found himself back up against Sherlock's mouth.

\- - - -

“What's this?” The tiny vial of deep red glowed against the light when John held it up to his eyes.

“My blood,” Sherlock answered.

John's gaze slanted over to the dragon lounging on the couch. “Really.”

“No, John, it's a vial of chicken blood and I'm testing your gullibility, of course it's my blood,” Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping from the words. “Go on then.”

“Are you serious?” John said incredulously, voice breaking a little. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock was suddenly on his feet and stepping just a bit too close, looking down in a way that would be intimidating to anyone except the man in front of him. “Quite.”

Deep blue eyes met storm-gray. The cap unscrewed easily, and John considered the vial thoughtfully for a moment. “ _Ah, linger on, thou art so fair,_ ” he murmured, then smiled and lifted it to his lips. 

\- - - -

If Sherlock had ever told John that he'd tried not to collect him, John would have laughed until he cried. Even dragons could be idiots.


End file.
